


spill the sunshine, oh

by growlery



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Music, Musicians, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elena doesn't believe in fate, but she can’t deny there's something weird about this woman that she keeps running into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spill the sunshine, oh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_ragnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/gifts).



> Sort of a Swan Lake AU, but it's a little weirder than that. Thanks to croissantkatie for looking this over. I hope you enjoy it, lady_ragnell!

Elena might be lost. 

Okay, no, that’s a lie, Elena is _definitely_ lost. She followed a symphony to the edge of the city and let it crescendo over her, and when her eyes fluttered open again she was... here. (She’s pretty sure she’s never even seen this street before, and there was that whole week at the start of first year which Elena mostly spent chasing melodies and trying to find her way back again.)

She’s supposed to be meeting Isolde for coffee in half an hour; Isolde will laugh at her forever if Elena got herself lost _again_. 

Elena cranes her neck around with renewed determination, trying to figure out which way she came before she got completely turned around, and that’s when she sees it. There’s a shop on the other side of the road, the display window filled with dusty, ancient-looking books, crooked letters above it spelling out _Ygraine’s Books_. 

It’s practically calling her _name_. 

“Getting lost in a bookshop trumps just getting lost,” Elena says thoughtfully, cocking her head to one side, and then she mutters, “Oh, like you need justification, _come on_ ,” before marching across the street. 

The shop is dark, illuminated only by a few lines of tiny, circular lights inset in the ceiling. It’s also cold, so cold Elena’s shivering in her jacket. It’s almost completely silent, no background music or quiet hum of voices. It’s kind of unsettling. 

There are rows upon rows upon _rows_ of bookshelves, though, and Elena can’t catch her breath as she stares at them. (For as long as she can remember, Elena has loved to read. She loves losing herself in a story, in an entire world. It’s part of why she loves music so much; you can lose yourself in a symphony or a song or even a few lines of lyrics, if it tells the right kind of story.)

Elena approaches the nearest row and peers at the books, scanning the titles, half looking for something familiar, half just looking. She doesn’t recognise any of the titles, though some of the authors sound familiar, names she’s read or heard or been told about. 

She skims a hand over the tops of the books, delighting in the feel of the paper beneath her fingers, and pulls out a book at random. As she does, though, something flutters out, a brief flash of white in the corner of her eye. Frowning, Elena bends to the ground and picks it up, turning it over in her hands. It’s a feather, white as snow and impossibly soft. It’s beautiful. 

“Can I help you?” comes a voice from behind Elena, and Elena nearly jumps out of her skin. 

She whirls around, smiling like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Yeah, hi, sorry! I’m just browsing, but thank you.”

The woman nods. She’s small and fine-boned and sort of fiercely pretty, dark hair pulled back from a pale face. “It’s wonderful,” she says. 

“I’m sorry?”

“The book you’re holding,” the woman says. She shakes her head, and the smile that pulls at her lips is sort of secret, sort of sad. “It’s wonderful.” 

“Oh,” Elena says, glancing down at it. _Wind, Sand and Stars_ , it says, and then, below it, _Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_ , pale letters against the dark cover. She turns it over in her hands, flicks through the first few pages, looking for a blurb, or a set of reviews, or any clue as to what it’s about. 

“May I?” the woman asks, and her voice is suddenly much closer. Elena looks up and startles; the woman is standing right in front of her. Up close, Elena can see that she’s not just pretty, she’s _beautiful_ , all porcelain skin and cherry-red lips and more terrible-romance-novel imagery Elena would be ripped apart for using in class. 

Elena nods, and the woman closes a hand around the book, her fingertips brushing Elena’s. Her skin is soft, soft like the feather Elena’s still holding behind her back. The woman tugs the book out of Elena’s hands and flicks it open, fingers dancing over the pages. 

“Ah,” she says quietly, and her fingers still. She clears her throat. “Life may scatter us and keep us apart; it may prevent us from thinking very often of one another; but we know that our comrades are somewhere ‘out there’ – where, one can hardly say – silent, forgotten, but deeply faithful. And when our path crosses theirs, they greet us with such manifest joy, shake us so gaily by the shoulders! Indeed, we are accustomed to waiting. Bit by bit, nevertheless, it comes over us that we shall never again hear the laughter of our friend, that this one garden is forever locked against us. And at that moment begins our true mourning, which, though it may not be rending, is yet a little bitter. For nothing, in truth, can replace that companion. Old friends cannot be created out of hand. Nothing can match the treasure of common memories, of trials endured together, of quarrels and reconciliations and generous emotions.”

Elena stares at the woman for a long time, and then she says, “That’s beautiful.” Her voice comes out hoarse and Elena coughs, swallows hard. “That’s beautiful,” she repeats. 

The woman smiles, but it’s the same small, sad smile as before. “Isn’t it,” she says, and for a moment she looks like she’s going to say something else, but then someone calls, “Mithian!”

The woman – Mithian, Elena supposes – turns her head, frowning. Another woman, also dark-haired, also beautiful, strides towards them. 

“You’re wanted in the back,” she says. “I’m to relieve you.”

Mithian nods. “Of course, Morgana,” she says, sounding resigned, and makes to leave. Not three steps away, though, she stops and turns around. “You should get the book,” she says to Elena. “If you like it, I mean, you should- you should get it. I think you’d like it.”

“Okay,” Elena says, smiling tentatively. She takes the book from Mithian, surreptitiously tucking the feather up her sleeve as she does. “I, yeah, okay, I’ll do that.”

“Okay,” Mithian echoes, and smiles back. This smile isn’t sad, isn’t secret; it looks hopeful, and Elena’s heart beats a little faster in her chest. 

“Mithian,” Morgana says sharply, and Mithian’s smile turns brittle. 

“Goodbye, Elena,” she says, and turns away, muttering something Elena can’t make out. Morgana watches her go, only turning to Elena once the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY has closed behind Mithian. 

“You wanted the book?” Morgana says. Her voice is cold, and Elena just about holds back a flinch. It’s not like she’s not used to people disliking her on sight, but it’s been a while and Elena _hoped_. 

“Yeah,” Elena says, “if it’s not too much trouble,” and immediately wants to smack herself. It’s a _bookshop_ , Morgana _works here_ , of course it isn’t too much trouble. 

“Follow me,” Morgana says, and turns on her heel. Elena hurries after her. Morgana rings up Elena’s purchase on an old-fashioned till, the likes of which Elena’s only seen in museums, and wraps the book in tissue paper before putting it in a bag and handing it to Elena. 

“Thank you,” Elena says, and for a moment, just a moment, Morgana softens, smiles warmly back at her, but then it’s gone. Morgana nods briskly, once, and strides back out from behind the till. 

Elena watches her for a moment, and then she shoulders her rucksack and walks out of the shop. The light and warmth and noise of the outside world hits her, all at once, and Elena has to blink a few times to resettle herself. 

“Mithian,” she repeats, laughing a little at herself, and then something occurs to her and she frowns. 

Mithian... called her Elena.

Elena never introduced herself. 

*

“You got lost, didn’t you,” Isolde says, smirking as Elena slides in across from her. 

“I did no such thing,” Elena says, with great dignity. “I’ll have you know I found this great bookshop on the edge of town, actually.”

Isolde raises an eyebrow. “What were you even doing on the edge of town?”

“Oh, shut up,” Elena mutters, feeling her cheeks heat, but when Isolde laughs and kicks at her ankle, it only hurts superficially. (She still has to remind herself, sometimes, that when Isolde makes fun of her she doesn’t really _mean_ it, but not as much as she used to.)

“Go on, then,” Isolde says, “tell me about this great bookshop, I can tell you’re dying to.”

“You wouldn’t appreciate it,” Elena tells her, grinning. “It’s not your kind of thing. It’s old, for a start, _really_ old, and it has-”

“Don’t say it has character,” Isolde warns, “ _don’t_.” Elena bites her lip. Isolde groans. “So it’s just like every other bookshop you’ve found in this city, then.”

“Not quite,” Elena says slowly, thinking of Mithian. 

“Oh,” Isolde draws out, a positively wicked gleam to her eye. “You met someone.”

“I- no, of course I didn’t, why would you think that,” Elena says, flustered, and Isolde’s grin nearly splits her face. 

“I knew it,” Isolde says, triumphant. “Come on, then, tell me about them. Were they hot? Did you get their number?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Elena protests. “It was just one of the women who worked there, she was really- she was really nice.”

Isolde’s eyebrows go up again. “And?”

“And _nothing_ ,” Elena insists, but Isolde’s eyebrows stay where they are. “She was just nice, seriously. She recommended a book to me. We talked for a bit. It was nice to have a mildly intelligent conversation, for once.”

Isolde kicks at her ankle under the table. “Hush, you,” she says, mock-haughty, “our conversations are very intelligent.” She smirks. “So was she hot, or?”

Elena rolls her eyes. “She was gorgeous,” she says, because Isolde won’t give up if Elena doesn’t give her something, but she’s distractable enough. “But I thought we were here so you could get out your frustrations about Vivian before you have to play with her.”

Isolde’s face darkens instantly. Vivian’s the first violinist for their symphony orchestra, and Elena knows her vaguely through that and her flatmate Elyan, who’s been dating her since first year. Elena thinks she’s nice, if a little obnoxious at times, but for reasons Elena has never been able to discern Isolde _hates_ her. 

“She’s just so _infuriating_ ,” Isolde says, launching into a detailed retelling of Vivian’s latest offence. Elena listens as attentively as she can, trying not to be distracted by the concerto which started up a few minutes ago and has progressively got louder. 

(It’s not an unusual occurrence; Elena found out a long time ago that the music tends to be attracted to musical people, like it sees something in them it recognises.)

It’s a simple piece, but it doesn’t have to be complex to be beautiful and Elena finds herself tapping out the rhythm, wondering how the melody would sound played by a flute.

“...so I need your help hiding her body,” Isolde says, and Elena startles so abruptly she nearly knocks over the coffee Isolde got for her. “Knew you weren’t paying attention, Christ, Elena.”

Isolde doesn’t sound reproachful, not exactly, but her eye-roll is just a little too over-exaggerated and Elena ducks her head. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, because she _is_ , she really is. “I’m just-”

“Stuck on your hot bookshop girl,” Isolde says, and the tease in her voice makes Elena relax, knowing she’s forgiven. “Does she have a name, or shall I just keep calling her your hot bookshop girl?”

“Her name’s Mithian,” Elena says, after a moment. 

(Isolde doesn’t know. Isolde is the best friend Elena has ever had, probably ever will have, and Elena has never told her that for her the world is seldom silent, that she hears music that doesn’t exist for anyone else. It’s not that Elena doesn’t trust her, it’s just... there’s something ineffable about it, and Elena has never been able to find the words to describe it to anyone.)

“Mithian,” Isolde draws out, clearly delighted. “I have to meet her, she sounds amazing.”

“ _Never_ ,” Elena vows, and Isolde just laughs. 

*

They get to the music hall with fifteen minutes to spare, because Isolde hates to be late for anything. Vivian sees them from across the room and beams, splitting her face with it. She waves, and Elena waves back, but Isolde just makes a face and turns away. 

Vivian’s hand drops, slowly, bringing the smile down off her face with it, and she looks so crestfallen that Elena can’t not make a sympathetic face at her. She thinks about saying something to Isolde, that even if she doesn’t like Vivian she needn’t be so _cruel_ , but Isolde’s already heading for the strings, tossing a, “See you later, El,” over her shoulder. Elena sighs, shoulders her bag, and turns towards the woodwind. 

Even after putting her flute together and warming up, they’re still no closer to starting, so Elena gets out the book she bought and starts reading. She doesn’t stop until Nimueh, the director, yells, “All right, everyone!”

The hall falls silent almost immediately. Nimueh surveys the entire room with an air of contempt, like she’s assessing their worth in that single look and finding them all wanting. (Elena tries not to cower; Nimueh is tall and fiercely competent and Elena had the hugest crush on her through first year.)

The rehearsal doesn’t go too badly, though it does drag on a while; they’ve got a concert in just over a week and every note has to positively _shine_. Elena’s not nervous, not exactly, she’s been playing since she was seven years old and there is nothing in the world like the feeling of music singing through her very bones, audience or no audience, but she just can’t help but worry a little. She wants to be perfect, but Elena has never been very good at perfect. 

*

Isolde is preoccupied with one of the cellists, Tristan or Tristram or something, when Elena looks over at the end of the rehearsal. Elena doesn’t particularly feel like hovering around waiting for her so when she’s packed up her stuff, she hurries out, drawing her coat closer against the sudden chill. 

She’s halfway home when she hears it, singing out sharp and clear through the air. The melody is painfully, deliciously familiar, and she closes her eyes, trying to place it. 

It takes her a second, but then she realises: it’s the refrain, from the symphony she followed earlier, the same hauntingly beautiful bars which settled under her skin and refused to let her go. 

Elena resists for a moment, two, then lets it lead her away. 

*

She finds herself in a clearing on the edge of the forest. She glances around, wary; the sun is starting to set above her, the blue sky bleeding into pinks and purples and oranges, and it’ll be dark in no time. She’s still got her flute with her, as well, clunking against the back of her leg when she walks, and she should’ve gone straight home, she _should’ve_. There’s something about this that feels important, though, something Elena can’t quite explain, and so she shoulders her bag and keeps walking until the chords fade into the dark. 

The lake is beautiful, dark rippling waters reflecting the deep hues of the sunset, surrounded on all sides by marsh and thicket and trees, branches bowing out over the surface of the water. Elena plops herself down on a conveniently positioned log and stares out at the lake, wondering why the music brought her here, why this tiny pocket of existence could possibly be important. 

“What’s your secret, eh?” Elena wonders, cocking her head, but the only response is the sigh of the wind as it blows through the forest. 

Her flute case slips out of her fingers and she swears, scrabbling for it, pulling it back into her lap. She pauses, glances down, cocks her head to one side. 

Finally, she says, “Fuck it,” and unzips the bag. It takes her a minute to assemble her flute, put the various pieces together, but when she brings the mouthpiece to her lips her fingers are steady and unwavering in a way they only ever are for this. 

She just plays scales to start with, warming herself up again, but there’s something crystallising in her mind and in the next breath she draws, she plays the melody that brought here here. Just the refrain – the whole symphony is far too complicated for her to even contemplate playing it by ear, yet – but it’s enough, Elena thinks, her eyes fluttering shut, it’s enough. 

When she opens her eyes again, the sun has set and there are seven swans gathered in a cluster on the lake in front of her. 

Elena startles, fumbles the note, but doesn’t stop playing. The swans’ presence is disconcerting, and their apparent focus on her even more so, but she’s halfway through her seventh iteration of the refrain and it seems important that she finish it, somehow. 

When she does, when she allows herself to look up again, the swans have dispersed. Elena exhales, slowly, and puts her flute back in its case. 

“Hi,” she says, and immediately feels stupid. It’s not like the swans can talk back or anything. “I, uh. Hope you liked that, I suppose, you seem to be quite a discerning audience.”

The swans, as expected, don’t respond. Elena nods, an awkward jerk of her head. 

“Right,” she says. “I’ll just, um.”

Elena ducks her head, grip tightening on her flute, and scurries away. 

*

That night Elena has horrible tangled dreams of feathers and long, long necks and eyes so bright the whole world burns brilliant white. She wakes up sweaty and shivering and has to take several deep, shuddery breaths before her heart stops pounding.

*

Elena has an hour break between her literature seminar and her creative writing class. She’s thinking about getting a coffee, settling into a corner with the book she bought, but there’s something soft and insistent singing under her skin and she finds herself heading for the rehearsal rooms without really meaning to. 

There’s already someone at the piano in the first one she tries, though, and they abruptly stop playing when Elena barges through the door. 

“Sorry,” she blurts, already back-pedalling, “I didn’t realise-”

“It’s fine,” says the someone, turning around, and Elena’s mouth drops open. 

“Mithian?” she says, disbelieving. “What are you- You aren’t studying here, are you?”

“Not any more,” Mithian says, her laugh sort of hollow. “They don’t mind me coming in to play the piano every so often, though.”

She motions for Elena to join her and Elena does, only a little awkwardly, perching on one of the desks beside the piano. 

“Could you play me something?” she asks, and Mithian blushes, says, “I’m not very good.”

“I bet you are,” Elena says, and it’s not flattery, not really; Mithian has long, elegant fingers, the kind that look like they were made to dance. “I’d love to hear you anyway.”

“Okay,” Mithian says, after a minute, and Elena cheers. It makes Mithian laugh, some of the tension leeching visibly out of her shoulders. “Anything in particular you’d like to hear?”

“Something you love,” Elena says, because those are her favourite performances, always: when the person playing truly cares about the story they’re telling, aches for it and with it. 

Mithian’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and then she nods to herself and lowers her fingers to the keys. 

She’s good, even though her left hand is sloppy and she fluffs a few chords; she coaxes the heart out of the music, breathes a bit of her own into it. Elena recognises the piece, though she can’t quite put a name to it. Something by Chopin, she thinks, or, no, Tchaikovsky, that fits better, though she’s not sure which piece exactly. It’s not like it matters, though; Mithian is _good_ and Elena is maybe a little hypnotised by her long, long fingers. 

“There,” Mithian murmurs when she finishes, resting her hands in her lap. She huffs a laugh. “I feel like I should apologise to Tchaikovsky for butchering his work.”

 _Romance in F Minor_ , Elena thinks, and, yes, that was what it was. “You didn’t butcher it,” she says, “that was lovely.”

“Thank you,” Mithian says, the tips of her cheeks going pink. “You should play me something now, so we’re even.”

“Okay,” Elena says, and moves to sit next to Mithian on the bench in the space she’s made. Elena stretches out her fingers, cracks her neck. “Any suggestions?”

Mithian shakes her head, and Elena bites back a grin. She knows exactly what she wants to play. 

She starts off slowly, because she transcribed the melody days ago based on fading memory and the faint echo at the back of her mind, but she _knows_ this, can hear it playing when she screws up her eyes tight, can see the notes crystallising in her mind. 

She ends on a high E, leaning across Mithian to reach the keys, and exhales. The silence that follows is deafening. Elena takes a deep breath, then another, then another, and draws back to look up at Mithian. 

Mithian is staring at her like she’s never seen her before. 

“What was that?” she asks eventually, and Elena shrugs, unsettled by the intensity of Mithian’s gaze. 

“Just something that’s been going round my head,” Elena says, which isn’t a lie. “Was it that bad?”

Mithian shakes herself hard, smiles too brightly at her. “What? No, it was wonderful, you’re- you’re wonderful, I just-” She stumbles to her feet, graceless in a way Elena doesn’t have to know her well to know is uncharacteristic. “I have to go, I- I just realised, my shift is starting soon, I mustn’t be late.”

Elena nods, forces herself to smile back so the disappointment doesn’t show on her face. “I’ve been reading the book you told me to get, by the way,” she rushes out, before Mithian can leave. “You were right, it’s wonderful.”

Mithian’s smile slips into something warmer, something real. “Really?” she says, and Elena can only nod, her mouth too dry for her to speak. Mithian’s so beautiful it hurts to look at her, a little. “I’m so pleased you like it.”

Elena nods again, staring up at Mithian, her heart pounding in her chest. Mithian keeps beaming at her, keeps looking at Elena like she’s something special, something important, and Elena wants to kiss her so much it hurts. 

Mithian turns her head away, blowing out a breath between her teeth that might be a laugh. 

“I really have to go,” she says, and Elena doesn’t think she’s imagining the fact that Mithian sounds really honestly sorry about it, not just politely apologetic. (She’s still disappointed, even though there’s no way she’d have done anything. Elena is a lot of things, but one thing she isn’t is brave.) “It was lovely seeing you again, though.”

“You too,” Elena says, her voice quieter than she means it to be. 

Mithian smiles again and stoops, bending down towards Elena. Elena’s heart thumps painfully hard in her chest; it’s loud enough that Mithian must be able to hear it, surely, _surely_.

Mithian looks at her, eyes darting over her face like she’s searching for something, and then she presses a kiss to the top of Elena’s head. Elena exhales sharply. Mithian squeezes her shoulder, smiles down at her, and then she’s gone, closing the door quietly behind her. 

*

Elena finishes the book over the next week in between classes and immediately starts reading it again. She understands, now, the tiny sad smile, Mithian’s quiet, _it’s wonderful_ , because it is, it really is, so beautiful it makes Elena want to weep. 

She heads for the bookshop Friday afternoon; it’s the one day she finishes early, and she wants to tell Mithian how much she loves the book, how deeply it’s affected her. The best part of a great story is sharing the joy it’s brought you, and Elena wants to see Mithian again, wants to see her smile and hear her speak, and maybe get a phone number out of her, or even just a last name, _something_. 

But she can’t find it. 

She wanders round in circles for what feels like hours and gets _nowhere_ , even though she’s sure she’s walked this way before. Eventually, she manages to find the street, or what she thinks is the street, at least, because she walks the length of it five times over and the bookshop _isn’t there_. 

Elena frowns, wondering if she’s just got the wrong place, but before she can puzzle over it for too long the music suddenly swells, loud and stormy and impossible to ignore. It’s not going anywhere, just swirling around and around her, tearing at her hair, her cheek, and she shuts her eyes against it, unable to hold back a whimper. 

When she opens them again, there are tears drying on her cheeks and two people standing at the end of the road, turned away from her. Elena thinks about asking them for directions, and then she notices that the smaller of them has long, dark hair, is even holding herself not unlike the way Mithian did. 

Elena’s heart pounds with a crazed kind of hope, and she calls out, “Mithian!” before she can stop herself. 

Both of them turn around, frowning at her, and Elena’s heart sinks. Neither of them are Mithian. The boy looks like Morgana, a little, if his hair were longer and his mouth tighter, but they have the same bone structure, the same wariness to their eyes. 

“Sorry,” Elena says. “I thought- I thought you were someone I knew.”

“She’s not here,” the girl says kindly, and Elena’s eyes go wide. 

“You know her? Can you tell me where she is? I’ve been trying to find her, I wanted-”

“Freya,” the boy says sharply. “We can’t.”

“We can,” Freya insists, “we _can_ , Merlin, there is nothing that says we can’t help.”

“We can’t _tell her_ ,” Merlin hisses. “She would have us for that, you know she would.”

“Tell me what?” Elena asks, her voice tiny. She feels lost, all of a sudden, and like there is something very, very important she’s missing. “Where’s Mithian? And for that matter, where’s _Ygraine’s Books_ , I know it should be-”

Merlin jerks back like she slapped him. 

“You see?” Freya says quietly. “You _see_?” She takes Merlin’s hands in hers and stares up at him, hard, and Elena has no idea what’s going on here but she recognises silent speech when she sees it, the kind only siblings can master, or people who have loved each other for a long, long time. 

After a minute, Merlin slumps, his forehead falling against Freya’s. “This is foolish,” he whispers. “She can’t-”

“She might,” Freya says, sounding determined, and Merlin sighs so quietly it’s little more than a breath. Freya turns to Elena, still holding one of Merlin’s hands, and smiles at her. “You can find her at the lake. But only if you go just before dawn and stay until the sun rises.”

“You shouldn’t,” Merlin says, and Freya makes a pained noise, says, “You _should_ ,” and her voice is horrible to hear, torn up and shredded at the edges. 

“Okay,” Elena says quietly. “I- thank you.”

Freya nods abruptly and turns away, tugging Merlin with her. Elena watches them go, watches them trudge down the road until they disappear around the corner and the world goes silent. 

*

Elena heads out to the lake an hour before sunrise, stifling yawns with the back of her hand. Briefly, she wonders how Freya knew she would know where to come from just _the lake_ , but it’s the least inexplicable part of this whole thing, honestly. 

Elena settles herself against a tree on the edge of the forest, leaning back against the bark. Her eyes close of their own accord, and she must drift off for a while because she jolts awake at the loud, discordant sound of a thousand screeching violins, a hundred wailing harpsichords. 

It cuts out, abruptly, and Elena scrambles to her feet, staring out at the swans gathered in front of the lake. A minute passes which feels like an age and then they turn their heads up towards the sun, their wings spreading wide, and it looks like- it looks like their bodies are rippling, their feathers liquid like water. Elena blinks hard a few times, wondering if her tiredness is catching up to her, and then her eyes widen. 

The swans are changing. Their legs are lengthening, their necks shortening, their feathers retreating into their skin, until- 

Until they aren’t swans any more. 

Until there are six people standing at the edge of the lake. 

Freya and Merlin are at the forefront, holding hands; next to them is Morgana, standing curved towards another woman Elena doesn’t recognise, and behind them is another woman with a man who looks startling like her, the same fair hair and defined, elegant features. Elena sucks in a breath, vibrating with shock, and then a hand comes down on her shoulder, gripping her hard. 

“Elena,” Mithian says, “what are you _doing_ here?”

Elena whirls around. Mithian’s wearing torn black rags, her hair messy and unkempt, her eyes burning wild and furious. It’s all Elena can do not to flinch. 

“I wanted to see you,” she says in a tiny voice. “I wanted- Freya told me I could find you here.”

Mithian says, “Freya,” on an exhale, and her anger seems to leave her with that breath. She lets go of Elena and rubs at her temple and somehow, somehow this is even worse, seeing her tired and resigned and utterly defeated. “I see.”

“She was a swan,” Elena whispers. “She was- they were _all_ swans, they were all- I don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t understand.”

“Elena,” Mithian says, helpless, “you can’t be here. If she finds you-” Mithian catches herself, shakes her head hard. “You can’t be here.”

Mithian takes her by the hand, steering her away, and Elena is still shocked enough to be pliant, to just go wherever Mithian is leading. Mithian keeps hold of her until they’re out of the forest, until they’re back in the city. 

“Go home,” Mithian says, letting Elena’s hand drop. She sounds so, so tired. “You shouldn’t try and find me again.”

“Mithian-”

“ _Go_ ,” Mithian says, her voice breaking, and Elena does. 

*

She walks back to her flat in a daze; she keeps flashing back to Freya and Merlin’s faces, to _you shouldn’t / you should_. She understands even less now what they meant, but of all the images swirling in her brain this is the one she can’t shake. 

Elena can hear voices coming from Elyan’s room when she gets through the door of her house, low and quiet. She hovers in the hallway for a minute, hand still curved around the doorknob, unwilling or just unable to move, she isn’t sure. 

“Elena?” Elyan calls, sounding surprised. “That you?”

Elena exhales sharply and lets the door close. “Yeah,” she calls back, and shuffles towards her own room. 

Elyan sticks his head out his bedroom door. “Bit late for you to be out, isn’t it?” he says, and when she turns around to smile weakly at him his eyes go wide. “Fuck, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Elena opens her mouth, tries to say something, closes it again. She doesn’t even know where to start explaining this.

“I’m fine,” she lies, “just had a long night. Um. I went for a walk? I’ve been kind of... stressed recently.”

Elyan frowns like he doesn’t believe her, but he only says, “Right. The concert tomorrow. Today, I guess.”

“Yes,” Elena says, seizing the excuse gratefully. “I just needed to get out of my head for a few hours, get some fresh air, y’know.”

Elyan nods. “You don’t need to stress,” he says, “you’ll be great.”

Elena gives a jerky nod, says, “Thanks.”

“Me and Vivian were going to go out afterwards, if you wanted to join us,” he offers. “And Isolde, too.”

“Sure,” Elena says, nodding again, “thank you.”

Elyan nods back, and it’s awkward for a moment before he steps forward and hugs Elena. Elena clutches back on instinct, resting her head against his bare shoulder.

“I know we’re not that close,” Elyan says softly, “but if there’s ever anything you need to talk about, I’m here. You know that, right?”

Elena didn’t, but she thinks she probably should’ve. She hugs Elyan a little tighter, whispers, “Thank you.”

*

This time Elena’s dreams are filled with people with white, white wings sprouting from their shoulder blades, people with Freya’s face, Merlin’s face, Mithian’s face. Someone is screaming, the noise breaking through the thunderous cacophony. One face burns brighter than all the others, mouth stretched wide in a painfully familiar grin that Elena can almost-

“Elena!”

Elena jolts awake, strong hands firm on her shoulders. Vivian is staring at her in concern; Elyan is hovering behind her, chewing his lip.

“You were screaming,” he says quietly. “We didn’t know what to do.”

Elena squeezes her eyes shut, but the nightmare images are fading from her brain already. She feels herself being tugged forward, feels soft long hair brushing her cheek.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Bad dream.”

“It’s okay,” Vivian says, hugging her tighter. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” and Elena presses her head into the side of Vivian’s neck and breathes deep. 

*

She doesn’t go back to bed after that, can’t, even though it’s stupid o’clock in the morning and Elena is so very very _tired_. She sits in the kitchen with the lights off, knees tucked up into her chest, a gentle lullaby circling her head. 

She doesn’t know what makes her move, hours later; she just gets up, stifling a yawn, and makes a pot of coffee. She pours herself a cup to drink after she washes her face and shimmies into a Nimueh-approved shirt and skirt, both black and smarter than anything Elena’s worn since she left school. She even tugs a brush through her hair and streaks black make-up around her eyes, makes herself look respectable if not pretty, and when she looks in the mirror she almost smiles at her reflection. 

Elyan and Vivian haven’t surfaced by the time Elena pads out again – a quick glance at the clock tells her it’s barely eight o’clock, so that isn’t surprising – so she scribbles a note on the noticeboard before shouldering her flute and slipping out of the flat. 

The rehearsal rooms are all empty when she gets there. Elena checks every single one twice even though she knows it’s stupid, even though she knows there’s no chance Mithian will be there. (Elena doesn’t know what’s going on here, but even if she can’t make out the bigger picture there’s no denying where the pieces seem to fall.)

Elena sits down at the piano, flute discarded on the ground next to her, and pulls out the transcription of the song she hasn’t been able to shake. She’s taken to calling it _Swan Lake_ inside her head, and that’s scrawled at the top of the sheet, above the notes she all but knows by heart, now. She can see them forming in her head while she plays, nestled amongst white feathers and long dark hair. 

But then Elena’s fingers stutter on the keys, thrown off course by sudden voices outside. The rehearsal room is soundproof, technically, but she didn’t shut the door properly; the noise is bleeding in, low and angry. 

Elena keeps playing, humming to herself to block out the noise, and then she hears an unfamiliar voice say, “You know the rules, Mithian,” and her entire body freezes.

“But it isn’t _fair_ ,” Mithian says, fierce and shaky like maybe she’s trying not to cry.

“Nothing about this is fair,” the other woman snaps, “you know that.” There’s a beat, two, and then she speaks again, more gently this time. “She finds people who are lost and gives them purpose. Isn’t it a better life?”

“Is it?” Mithian says, and her voice is so quiet Elena has to strain to hear it. “Are you happy, Ygraine?”

 _Ygraine_ , Elena mouths, her heart pounding in her chest. 

“Of course I am,” Ygraine says sharply. 

“And is Arthur?”

“Do _not_ ,” Ygraine says, viciously protective. “He is my son and-”

“And he’s cursed to spend the rest of eternity with you and only you,” Mithian says, and she sounds so _tired_. “I don’t want that for her.”

“What about what she wants?” Ygraine says, and Mithian says nothing. “She won’t stop, now, she won’t leave you alone. They never do.”

“She might,” Mithian says, and there is a bitter, ugly laugh and Ygraine says, “She won’t.”

Elena inhales slowly. She is certain in a way she cannot explain that they are talking about her. She still doesn’t understand, she doesn’t understand _any_ of this, but she gets slowly to her feet and pushes the door open. 

Mithian is standing with one of the women from the lake, the one with the man, boy, who looked so much like her it was almost painful. Mithian whirls around when the door opens, her eyes widening at the sight of Elena. 

“I won’t,” Elena says, and her voice doesn’t shake even a little bit. “It is another of the miraculous things about mankind,” she continues, eyes fixed on Mithian, “that there is no pain nor passion that does not radiate to the ends of the earth. Let a man in a garret but burn with enough intensity and he will set fire to the world.”

“Elena,” Mithian says, helpless, and beside her Ygraine laughs softly. 

“What is the saying, these days?” she says, then after a measured pause, “Ah. You sure know how to pick them. I wish you well, Elena.” Ygraine smiles, bows her head briefly at her, then turns and walks away. 

“Who is she?” Elena asks, and Mithian’s head jerks round to look at her. 

“Ygraine,” she says, a twist to her mouth, “is a very, very old friend.”

“No,” Elena says, shaking her head hard. “The woman who did this to you, who... cursed you,” she says, and, yes, that is the right word, _cursed_ , a piece of the puzzle slotting neatly into place. 

Mithian smiles sadly at her. “I think you know,” she says, and Elena makes a frustrated noise, says, “But I _don’t_.”

And then, behind them, a familiar voice says, “Oh, I think you do.”

Mithian’s eyes go so wide. Elena can’t catch her breath, can’t, can’t. 

Nimueh says, “Hello, Mithian. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Nimueh,” Mithian breathes, “Nimueh, you can’t.”

“You know the rules,” Nimueh says, and she sounds nothing like Ygraine did, before. She sounds nothing like Elena’s orchestra director, either, and Elena still can’t quite breathe. “You know what has to happen now.”

“No,” Mithian says, shaking her head, “no, _please_ , just let her go. You can have me in her place, you can-”

“No, Mithian,” Elena protests, because she’s starting to understand, she’s starting to _get_ it, and that doesn’t sound anything approaching good. “You can’t-”

“So this is your hot bookshop girl, Elena?” Isolde says, hooking her chin over Elena’s shoulder and snapping the tension neatly in half. Elena nearly jumps out of her skin in shock. “Ow, fuck, what’s wrong?”

Nimueh’s mouth gets sort of tight in the way it usually only does when someone fucks up a solo. Mithian looks utterly defeated. 

“Nice to meet you, anyway,” Isolde says. “Are you here to support Elena?”

“I-” Mithian starts, but Nimueh cuts her off. 

“She’s here for me,” she says, grabbing Mithian by the arm. “Excuse us. We need to have a talk in my office.”

And with that, Nimueh steers Mithian away, down the corridor. The horrible feeling gathering in Elena’s chest strengthens, and strengthens. 

“What the fuck was that?” Isolde asks, head cocked to one side. 

“I have no idea,” Elena says on an exhale. Part of her wants to run after Nimueh and Mithian and demand answers, but the rest of her, the larger part, is too scared of what they might be. “Did you want something?”

Isolde gives her a weird look, but she just says, “Vivian asked me to practice with her and I really really don’t want to go through that by myself.”

“She’s not that bad,” Elena says, thinking of the way Vivian had held her, the concern in her eyes. “You should give her a chance.”

Isolde snorts. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “You still have to come with me and practice with us.”

“Fine,” Elena sighs, ducking back into the rehearsal room to retrieve her flute. 

As soon as it’s in her hands, the air is pierced by the desperate shriek of horns. Elena startles, and Isolde says, “You okay, Elena?” and Elena knows, she _knows_ , before they even start tugging at her clothes, that she has to follow them. She shoulders her flute, grabs her sheet music and runs. 

*

The lake is empty when Elena gets there. Music fading from her ears, she glances anxiously around, hoping for a sign, for something to tell her what to do next. 

And then it hits her, hard, and she has no idea why it took her this long to figure it out. 

It doesn’t take her long to assemble her flute, and then she’s lifting it to her mouth and breathing into it, breathing out the song of Swan Lake. It isn’t perfect, it isn’t anywhere near it, but she puts everything she has into it, every story she’s ever heard and every story she’s ever told, every last twisted up piece of her soul, and she thinks – _hopes_ – it’s enough.

When she lets herself look, the seven swans are gathered in front of her. As she watches, they shift from bird to human, human to bird, unable to settle, and Elena doesn’t know what to do except keep playing. This has to work, _it has to_ , because it’s the only hope she has. 

She has no idea how long she stands there, arms raised, flute held high. It feels like forever and it feels like no time at all when she finally collapses on the ground, all but sobbing with exhaustion. Her eyelids flutter, trying to stay open, but they feel like they’ve been weighted with the guilt of a generation, dragging her down into the darkness. It’s so warm there, so safe, and Elena is just about to succumb to the pull when she feels a hand cupping her cheek, soft like down. 

“Mithian?” she mumbles, blinking her eyes open. 

“You did it,” Mithian says softly, stroking the side of Elena’s face. “You broke the curse. We’re free.”

Elena breaks into a grin, can’t help herself, and throws her arms around Mithian’s neck. She presses her mouth to Mithian’s cheek, and then she tips up Mithian’s chin and says, very seriously, “I’m going to kiss you now. If that’s okay.”

Mithian just laughs, giddy and joyful. Elena kisses Mithian, hard and deep, then pulls away, resting her forehead against Mithian’s.

“Yes, well done,” comes Nimueh’s voice, bitter and miserable. Elena’s head snaps up; Nimueh’s standing by the swans, hunched in on herself. “You broke the curse. You ruined everything I’ve ever worked to make my own. Congratulations.”

Her eyes linger on Ygraine when she says this, who gives a sharp intake of breath in response. 

“Nimueh,” she says, “you never needed to imprison me to make me yours.” She steps forward, ignoring Nimueh’s flinch. “I will stay with you always. I thought you knew.”

“I-” Nimueh starts, her eyes so wide. “I didn’t think-”

Ygraine pulls Nimueh into her arms, squeezing tight. “I love you,” she whispers, and Elena ducks her head along with the others, trying to give them some semblance of privacy. 

Mithian takes Elena’s hand and squeezes, and Elena looks up at her, smiling. 

“I’m playing in a concert later today,” she says shyly. “It’s sort of a big deal. Would you like to come watch me?”

“Of course,” Mithian says, smiling back at her. “I’d love to.”

Elena gets to her feet, pulling Mithian up with her. After one final glance in Nimueh and Ygraine’s direction, she turns and walks away, hand in hand with Mithian.


End file.
